The Mysterious Ways
by sylphxpression
Summary: Let's see what happens when a keeper of magic has a run-in with a keeper of religion, shall we? NO SLASH! I am sorry for slowness, I've a goblin problem. They get into everything and disturb my rest. I blame Jareth.
1. Chapter 1

Ch

Ch. I: A Lesser Adversary

Fr. Michael looked at Cath in concern. She was glaring with undisguised hatred at her five month old sister. Every line of the teenaged girl's body was tense, as if ready to leap up and do the child some mischief. "Catherine? What is it?" he asked her tentatively, studying her in an attempt to anticipate her next action. She tore her gaze away from the slumbering infant.

"It's all her fault." Cath asserted through clenched teeth. Her eyes still glittered with malice as she looked the priest in the face. He was startled and dismayed by her response. How she could harbor such deep spite for a child not yet half a year old, he did not pretend to approach knowing. She murmured something else under her breath, which he couldn't quite hear.

"What is all her fault-" he began when the lights suddenly went out. He leapt to his feet immediately, concerned for Ms. McArthur's safety. Little Anna gave a sudden wail that was cut short as it reached its apex. Alarmed, he called, "Cath?" He heard a snigger that was remarkably inhuman and whipped his head around, catching a glimpse of a dark shape ducking out of sight from the corner of his eye.

"I'm here!" she responded. There was an edge of fear to her voice, laced with excitement. For some reason, Fr. Michael felt a sense of deep foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Praying without words, he stumbled as quickly as he could over to the rickety playpen where Anna lay. Just before he reached it, there was a fretful gurgle. He froze. It was a sound that instilled a primal fear of the dark that pressed him like a live thing within his soul. With a tremor in his hands and heart, he reached to pull back the ragged blanket. Cath he could hear, stumbling her way over to him. With a quick motion, he threw back the blanket from the child's form. Cath reached his side as he did. He gasped in horror, there was nothing under them. The teenager gave a small cry and hissed, "Yes!" There was a rattle at the large window in the wall to their left.

Fr. Michael gaped at the barn owl which beat its wings against the glass. In his mind it was larger than life, somehow taking on greater significance than any other such bird. He heard Cath's sharp inhalation beside him. Suddenly, impossibly, the window flew up, and a gale whipped into the room. The priest was dealt a stinging smack by one of the heavy drapes, which were whipping about like lace curtains in a breeze. He raised his hands to fend the frantically lashing cloth off.

"You're... You're him! It's really _you_!" he heard Cath say in a voice of awe. The wind had died to a light breeze. He dropped his arms and was stunned by what he saw. There, lounging on the windowsill, was a man so strange he must be a dream. He was lithe and feral, with a cruel half-smile on his long, thin face. The breeze played with long, jagged blonde hair and billowed a diaphanous black cloak in the direction of the two mortals. The priest knew, with inexplicable certainty, that he was not human in any way.

"You're the Goblin King!" Cath breathed. Fr. Michael glanced at her sharply. He wasn't sure he liked the gleam in the girl's eye. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on, either, but the man in the window exuded an air of danger. And Cath seemed entranced by him. "Jareth." she added.

The intruder's amused gaze became sharp. "And would you like to beg the wished-away child back again, as well?" He inquired. His tone was languid, but a knife-edge was hidden beneath it. Fr. Michael sensed that there was something important going on here, but what it was he had no notion. And there was one concern that was foremost in his mind.

"Where is Anna?" he demanded. The pair looked at him as if they had completely forgotten his existence. Cath seemed annoyed by the intrusion of real life in the person of the parish priest. The Goblin King, if such he was, looked at Michael with eyes that glittered with cold amusement. Then he turned back to Cath, extending a hand to her. Light coalesced before Michael's astonished eyes into the shape of a small crystal.

"A gift," he stated, intent on Cath. The glowing orb was reflected in her wide eyes. She reached for it, anticipation etched on her features.

"My dreams," she whispered softly. Her fingertips almost touched the bright thing. Fr. Michael observed something dark in the core of it.

"Catherine Veronica McArthur!" he rapped out suddenly. The teenager started and stared at the normally mild priest, whose face blazed with anger in the strange illumination of the bauble. The King looked at Michael with a bitter twist to his thin mouth. The priest ignored him. "Catherine, _where is your sister?"_ he demanded. There was a snicker from the creatures he had glimpsed. The girl didn't answer, looking sullenly at the ground.

"She's there," the stranger answered instead, pointing out the window, "In my castle." Michael, temporarily distracted from the teenager, gazed disbelieving where the gloved hand indicated. Where there should have been wet night, trees, and buildings, there had appeared a sprawl of walls, crowned by a far distant castle. The wind picked up again. Smirking, the King turned back to Cath.

"Catherine," he purred, "You don't wish that troublesome brat about anymore, do you? I can keep it in my castle forever, where you'll never have to think of it again. As a goblin, she'll never trouble your precious mind again. A girl with dreams like yours is far too special to bother over some squalling little baby." His voice was soft, persuasive. Cath did not take much persuading. He offered her the crystal again.

"_Yes_," she hissed, a defiant gleam in her eyes. Michael looked about him.

"Cath, yeh canna let him keep yehr sister!" he pleaded desperately, his Irish accent coming out as it often did under stress. She didn't look at him. It was as if her world had narrowed to the "gift" in the Goblin King's hand.

"Why not? After all, they _are_ my dreams." she murmured as if in answer. Her eyes glowed feverishly as she reached for the crystal. Her hand closed around it, and she disappeared.

The Goblin King turned to Fr. Michael in annoyance. With pressed lips and narrowed eyes, he told him, "That should have gotten rid of you, as well." Fr. Michael merely looked at him. The King sighed. "What claim do you have to the child?" he demanded. The bitter twist was back.

"I baptized her." the priest said. He was not sure how this might constitute a claim on Anna. The twist became a scowl. All trace of amusement vanished from the mismatched eyes, now there was only overwhelming hostility. The King swore.

"The power of names," he murmured to himself, looking towards the ground. He redoubled the power of his glare at Fr. Michael. "Fine. I acknowledge your right to run the Labyrinth. You have-" he gestured at the clock behind him, which hadn't been there before- "Thirteen hours to find your way to the centre of my Labyrinth and reclaim the babe. Past that, the child is mine forever."

"It's only a great maze," Fr. Michael murmured, studying what he could see of the Labyrinth. The Goblin King laughed aloud at this statement.

"Yes," he mocked, "A great maze. A _goblin _maze. Are you sure you still want to look for the child?"

"I have faith that God will not abandon her." the priest stated confidently. The King chuckled at that. He began to fade into thin air.

"Remember," his voice echoed," You have thirteen hours." The last things to fade were his eyes and his laugh. Fr. Michael did not wait to see what might happen next, he went downhill toward the Labyrinth at a trot.

A creature was shambling about at the base at the base of the blank wall, holding a large, old-fashioned sprayer. As the priest neared, he could hear it muttering despondently. Squirting a small, winged thing, he sighed, "98." Michael slowed down warily.

"Excuse me," he said from a cautious distance, "But can you direct me to the door?" The creature didn't look around.

"What door? 99." it said grouchily.

"The door to the Labyrinth." Michael clarified.

"What do yeh want wit it?" _squirt._

"Well, I want to get inside, of course!" the priest said.

"Insoide where?"

"Do you always dodge questions like this?" Michael demanded, exasperated. The gardener turned his leathery head to look at the young man in disdain.

"Not if you asks the right questions." he said snobbishly. It had plainly taken a dislike to him. Fr. Michael closed his eyes and sent up a prayer for patience.

"Can you tell me," he said slowly, "How to get into the Labyrinth?" The gardener sneered at him.

"Well, now," he said, "Was that so difficult? Yeh gets in-" he pointed to a part of the wall which now had two huge doors in it- "_There._" He enunciated this last word oddly, and the doors rumbled open.

"Thank you." Michael said stiffly, setting off towards the gate at a brisk pace. The dwarf had to trot to keep on his heels. The priest hesitated a moment on the threshold. A thick white mist rolled out towards him, as if trying to pull him in. The thought of Anna made him step through the door, and the mist dispersed.

"So, you, uh, really going in, are you?" the dwarf asked with a sort of forced casualness. He met Fr. Michael's curious glance with a sidelong look of his own. Michael looked left and right, down the eternal, grim corridor. He took a steadying breath.

"I have to. Anna is part of, I canna leave her here." He was saying this to himself as much as to the leathery form next to him. The gardener made a face and shrugged.

"Well, I s'pose you've got yer reasons. But I oughtta warn you," he continued, "Jareth's beefed up the security, like, since the las' time anyone made it. It's a lot more dangerous than it was before. Even the goblins have... evolved... a bit. The notion seemed to unnerve the little man a bit. Then he shrugged a bit. Then he shrugged again. "Not my problem. The Labyrinth ain't really my buisiness no more. Just the gate." He shambled back outside the maze. With a gesture, he slammed the doors shut behind him.

Fr. Michael stood for a moment, considering. Finally he muttered, "In a place like this, it can only be left." He began walking quickly in that direction, stepping over broken branches and trying to avoid looking the fungus growing on the walls in the eye. He figured this Jareth creature wouldn't give him a minute more than he actually needed to solve the Labyrinth with luck. It was better to get to the centre with barely a moment to spare than to fall down from exhaustion after half an hour of running.

He came to the first opening after about ten minutes of walking. After a moment, he stepped through the gap, and darkness closed around him.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch

Ch. 2: "An Eye For An Eye"

If the initial long corridor had been eerie, this part was thrice as unnerving. The light was dim, as though filtered with smoke. It had an unclean feeling. The hair on the back of Michael's neck stood up; he could hear wailing in the distance. He glanced uncertainly over his shoulder and saw a blank wall. He tentatively reached out, and felt clammy stone. "No other way but forward, then." he murmured, suiting the action to the word.

As he moved deeper into the Labyrinth, the sound of crying became more pronounced. It sounded like some truly wretched soul was sobbing their heart out in the bowels of the maze. He found himself looking about for the weeper as he wound his way through the twisting paths. The crying struck a deep chord in him. But there was not a living being in sight; even the macabre fungus had disappeared.

The noise became louder and louder, driving him almost frantic. Then he turned a corner and found her. A girl, sitting in a shallow niche in the wall. He approached her slowly, yet she started and looked about her fearfully anyway. "Who's there?" she called, voice thick from long hors of crying. She drew her legs up to her chest defensively. Michael stepped towards her slowly, hands raised in a gesture of harmlessness.

"I am Fr. Michael Adams. Why were you crying?" he asked her. She looked to be about Cath's age. At his question, her pale face rumpled in despair.

"I... I'm supposed to be running the Labyrinth. I wished my half-sister away, I didn't mean to! I did it as a joke! But now she's gone, because I'm lost..." she trailed off with a whimper. He was only an arm's length away from now, and could make out the details of her face even in the dim light. She was undersized, and there was something Asian about her features. She sounded American. What shocked him, though, were the horrible scars that marked the skin around her eyes. Light blue eyes, unfocused and staring past him.

"Perhaps we can find our way to the centre together," the priest suggested, desperate to comfort the child in any small way. She smiled at him weakly, and reached out a grimy hand to him.

"I'd like that..." she said wistfully. He took her hand and helped her up. She did not release his hand, instead tightening her grip painfully. Unnaturally strong, she pushed the shocked priest against the wall. The teenager's left hand was crushing the breath out of him, she didn't even seem to notice his double-handed efforts to relieve the pressure on his ribs. She took a rusted knife from somewhere in her clothing as he gasped vainly for breath.

"Don't struggle," she growled, finger tracing his left eye," It'll just make things worse. Don't worry," she giggled, "It's in the nature of an exchange. My eyes for yours. And then I'll be able to see again..." The tip of the knife touched the skin next to his eye. He managed to draw in a shallow breath. The knife cut into him. The priest reached out and touched the girl's emotionless face, gasping, "Heal in the name of Christ!" in a breathless rush.

A strange look came over her. She dropped the blood-tipped knife and released the priest to fall to his knees. As he knelt gasping, the light suddenly came through clearly, and Fr. Michael saw it bathe her in a special radiance. The filmy blue cleared to show sharp green, and joy suffused her face. Still gazing upwards, she fell to her knees, then sprawled on the stones.

Fr. Michael felt her limp wrist. Then he stood, still wheezing slightly, and turned to walk away after sending up a quick prayer for her soul's repose. He nearly collided with the Goblin King standing not a handspan away. Fury radiated from the strange ruler. "You'll only make it harder on yourself if you insist on performing miracles on every wretch in the place." Jareth remarked in a mild tone that belied the anger that burned in his eyes. "Her own nature led to her downfall. Foolish and arrogant, she challenged the Labyrinth, and the Labyrinth destroyed her. You've seen fit to reverse my justice. I won't warn you again: Do not attempt to interfere with the Labyrinth." This warning delivered, he disappeared.

Badly shaken, the priest continued his journey.

**Author's Note: **_**I surmised that miracles would be more effective in the strange world of the Labyrinth. After all, "God works in mysterious ways..." and there are no ways more mysterious than the twisted paths of the Labyrinth. Heheheh... **_


	3. Chapter

Ch

Ch.3: Bar the Way

Fr. Michael went on determinedly. He tried to take shallow breaths in consideration of his aching ribs, but this quickly proved impossible in combination with the rapid pace needed. Working against him was the Labyrinth itself, and the uncanny conditions it encouraged. Though there was no more eerie mist, and the smoky dimness had vanished at the last turning, visibility was poor. He could see clearly no more than ten feet ahead of himself.

Then his ears registered a strange sound. _Snip. Snip, snip. Snipsnip snip. _His pace faltered. He turned around, retracing his steps to a fork. He took another path now, in hopes of avoiding any unpleasant encounters with scissor-wielding maniacs. For a while, he walked with no other sounds save those of his feet and breathing. But in a very short time, he heard another noise: _Snip!_ It sounded almost agitated now, like a hundred pairs of scissors being opened and closed out of sequence.

He glanced over his shoulder, and made a decision. He pressed on. Anna was the important thing; he had already used four hours of his time. He had to get to her; he _would _get to her. _Though Hell should bar the way, _he thought grimly. He did not fool himself by hoping that the blind child had been the worst of the Labyrinth's dangers.

A huge arch suddenly loomed above him. Its apex was some hundred feet in the air; it appeared to be made of steel. And attached to the curve of the arch were seven long, articulated steel serpents. Huge jaws were set on these supple necks. And in the jaws were pair after pair of scissors, serving the serpents as teeth. _Snip, snip, snip._ The snakes were still, watching him as he stared at them. They had no eyes, what other sense they were using he could not guess.

He noted with slight irritation that the queer visibility conditions did not affect his seeing up or down. The uncanny snakes made no more than the slightest of swaying motions. Fr. Michael crossed himself in gratitude for their apparent disinterest in him. He stepped toward the opening.

With shocking speed the seven steel creatures darted at him, teeth snipping. He staggered backward with a cry. The blank heads watched him for a moment. Presently, it occurred to they were no longer attacking. He got slowly to his feet. Observing the now-still snakes with some trepidation, he evaluated his choices. He could go back, which would probably be unproductive. He could try to go forward again, and experience a very queer death indeed. Or, he could talk to the mechanical monsters.

"Er, excuse me!" he said in a slightly unsteady voice, "But I'd like to go through that beauteous arch of yours, if yeh don't mind." The snakes simply stared at him, and he felt his heart sink.

Then the snake on the far left opened its mouth. _You shall not pass,_ it said. Somehow, the words were formed through carefully combined scissor snips. Michael almost laughed aloud; the idea was so ridiculous: talking teeth. Or perhaps it wasn't so ludicrous, but he could almost feel his mind cracking from the stress he was under.

_Shut up, Gandalf,_ the snake in the middle snipped in an annoyed tone. _Honestly, you're so stupid. Sure we don't mind. It's not even our arch; we're just watching it for His Majesty._

_What about the riddles? _objected the sixth snake.

_Oh, yeah, the riddles... almost forgot... Yeah, sorry 'bout that, you'll have to answer some riddles-_

_You're going to die!_ the third snake interrupted with glee.

-_Which aren't very hard. You'll do fine._ The middle snake finished reassuringly. Michael wasn't sure how he felt about being comforted by a metal snake. In fact, he was a little bemused. But he had caught one thing.

"Riddles?" he asked in confusion.

_Yes, very easy ones. People win, all the time._

_Yeah, like when? _asked the fifth snake sarcastically.

_OK, not all the time-_

_Never. _The fifth one interrupted caustically.

_-But don't think about that. Relax, you'll be fine._

The sinking feeling had returned. Obviously, the middle snake's ideas about how difficult the riddles were varied quite a bit with the impression the other snakes had. Impossible riddles seemed more than plausible in a place like the Labyrinth.

_Your Majesty!_ The seven mechanical snakes said suddenly. They all bobbed their heads in fervent reverence. With a sick feeling, Fr. Michael turned around. The Goblin King gave him a jaunty little smile. Wickedness glinted in both of his mismatched eyes.

"Yes, you'll be fine. Of course. If you go back to your little town Aboveground, you will. The Labyrinth is not forgiving, _Father,_" he pronounced the honorific mockingly, "Nor is it slow to anger. Continue, and you will find worse than death here." he promised in a soft, fatal voice. He stalked closer, and Michael struggled not to back up.

"Go back to your church, Michael. Say your prayers, and read your Bible. Light a candle for the child's soul, if you feel so _obligated._ You're wasting your time." The Goblin King drawled softly. Then he stepped back, and held up another of those accursed crystals. Within, perfect and miniscule, was the small Catholic church Michael served at. Next to it was the small, shabby rectory he'd come to think of as home. Longing welled up in Michael, and he was painfully aware of every ache and scratch, as well as his dry throat.

With an effort, he looked away from the heartachingly real image up at the cruel King. Brown eye and blue eye alike were dark with unspoken threats. Michael pushed back the awe he felt of this uncanny entity. "Maybe I am," he said softly, "But I know you're seekin' to waste more." He turned away, back to the seven sentinels. Somehow the blank metal heads managed to look sheepish.

"Yeh said yeh had some riddles to ask me?" Michael prompted. He intentionally ignored the brooding presence at his back. The snakes bobbed and swayed uncertainly. Finally, with an apologetic bob towards its king, the snake who had first spoken answered by asking.

_When is it cruel to be kind?_It inquired numinously. Michael frowned and tilted his head a bit. It was a habit of his; people sometimes joked that he was hoping the right answer would fall into place. He mouthed the words to himself, frown deepening. _Oh, Lord, please help me, he_ prayed. He began running through his head all the scenarios that might fit the bill.

"When the kindness… is life, and living is cruel." He said finally, haltingly. Painful memories wrenched at his heart.

_Correct, _the snake conceded snippily. This caused some nervous bobbing among the other snakes. They seemed unnerved by his answering the first riddle correctly. But, surely, someone had gotten at least that first one right before?

Michael turned his head marginally to see the Goblin King's reaction. The strange monarch had vanished. The priest shrugged a little. _When is left, right? _Asked the next snake along. This one seemed easy to Michael; he remembered his first choice in the twists of the Labyrinth.

"When left is the right direction to go in." He answered. The questioner coiled up sulkily. Apparently, he was right. Surely, there was a trick somewhere to all this. Maybe the next riddle would be harder.

_When is time, space?_Asked the third snake. Ah, here was the hard one. Michael frowned and rubbed his palm hard against his forehead. He paced, and muttered. The mechanical beasts followed his every motion hungrily. He couldn't waste time. He had nothing to lose, really, so he hazarded a guess.

"When the world stands still?" He said with a slight shake of his head. He had no idea where that notion had come from; and it seemed fairly ridiculous to him. He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of slicing teeth.

_Correct. _The third snake said after a stunned silence. _Good heavens…_ it added faintly. It then recoiled in a nervous sort of way. Fr. Michael got the weird notion that it was _afraid_ of him.

_My turn! _The middle head announced cheerfully. _OK, what's either stronger than steel or more fragile than silk, according to whom it is given? Come on, guess!_ The loquacious piece of machinery bobbed up and down in an excited manner. Michael frowned slightly and bit his lip. _It must be something as metaphysical as all the rest, _he mused. _Giving… Strong or fragile…_ His mind skipped through all kinds of intangible gifts.

Suddenly he smiled. "Hmm… This is hard… Could it be… Trust?" he asked in a teasingly halting voice. The middle snake writhed happily.

_That's right! You're good at this. I told you you'd do well!_ The encouraging metal creature snipped happily. The head to its left gave an annoyed shrugging motion. The middle head clashed its teeth threateningly at its neighbor. It recoiled, and the middle snake looked about it in an aggressive way. The head on the other side of it snipped its teeth impatiently.

_Anyway,_ it said in a pointed sequence of snips, _Now that you're quite finished... Can we move on? Yes? Good. They can be balm, or they can wound. What are they?_ It inquired in an officious way. Its posture was an S-curve of smugness, staring down its metal snout at him with non-existent eyes. This made the priest feel slightly testy.

"Well, since you're using them yourself," he said in a cross voice, "Yeh should know 'em. Words." His tone was decidedly short. The riddler seemed hurt by his tone. It looped into sad metallic coils. _Needn't be rude, _it muttered in a pained way. Michael instantly felt a pang of remorse.

"I apologize." He said with sincerity. The snake went straight and quite rigid with surprise. _Apology accepted,_ it said in a shocked way. _I- er- was quite rude myself..._ it trailed off in an embarrassed way. Fr. Michael smiled at it cheerfully. "Quite alright, I wasn't a bit offended." It made shy, loose coils of itself. He looked at the next snake along.

_What can bind and hurt you, but also make you free?_ It blurted without preamble. Fr. Michael couldn't see why it was in such a rush; it wasn't like it had anywhere to go. _He_ was the one in a hurry. This reminded him, with a jolt, of the phantom passage of time. Immediately banishing any indignation he might feel about the abruptness of it, he applied his mind to the riddle asked. Almost at once he ascertained the answer.

"Love." he said simply. Painful memories threatened to capsize the fragile vessel of his emotions, but he held firm against the storm. The hurt raged on, but locked behind a wall. But this barrier was rather like a scab; it was only a temporary solution and could easily be ripped open. Michael therefore sought to keep his thoughts mild. Only dispassionate, diluted reactions allowed.

_Right-ho, _the final snake said briskly,_ Last one: Does love lie?_ All of the senitels directed their heads to "gaze" eyelessly at the suddenly stiff figure of the priest. Fr. Michael felt paralyzed, his numb mind had suddenly stopped working. Two answers, seeming equally plausible, suddenly blazed into life, with any number of memories arrayed behind them like competing hosts. He fell into confusion; he couldn't extract himself from the nostalgic mire enough even to pray for help.

Suddenly, in the midst of the mental drowning, he heard himself speak. "No." he said confidently. Michael heard this, and the storm halted, as if every memory had heard and now stood stock-still in bemusement. Internally, Michael investigated to discover what part of him had spoken.

_No?_ the last head asked ambiguously.

"No." Michael confirmed in a slightly strange voice. It was a tone tainted with curiosity and a sort of longing. He felt, with absolute certainty, that this was right. The snakes stretched as one entity. The archway was clear for Michael. With a weird and lingering wistfulness sighing in his mind, the young priest stepped through.

Hot winds blasted him, and his foot sank into superheated sand.


	4. Chapter 4

I apologize for any confusion caused by the unfinished nature of the last chapter

**I apologize for any confusion caused by the unfinished nature of the last chapter. The mistake has been fixed, and I suggest you look at the added page or so before reading this. I hop that you find a little of the characterization you have asked about, and be assured there will be more. This looks to be quite a long story. **

The Deceiver

A hot, scathing wind hit him. Michael staggered, and sunbaked sand infiltrated his cheap dress shoes. The black cambric shirt was quickly soaked almost to the cuffs with sweat. He gasped, and it felt as though half of what he sucked in was sand. Every inch of his exposed skin was being sandpapered by the stinging, airbourne particles.

He narrowed his eyes in defense against the sand, but tears still ran freely down his face. The grains of sand felt like red-hot needles in his eyes. He felt like he was in an oven. _An oven,_ he thought grimly, _That is probably on fire. God help me._ Through his mostly closed eyes he could see only steep dunes. The sand was a queer, rose-orange colour.

Michael, partly bent over from the howling winds, began to walk in an attempt at a straight line. Had he looked back, he would have seen a lonely, wriggling line of footprints that began in the middle of nowhere. After a few minutes, it was still a depressingly _short_ wriggly line.

He fumbled at his neck, sliding the white collar of priesthood to the side and practically ripping the first few buttons undone. The effort of walking in this heat was causing him to pant. It was all he could do to keep his tongue from lolling animalisticly. It is hard to remember dignity in hardship. He concentrated on the mercurial surface he was walking on.

A tiny figure struggled through sand in a startlingly perfect image in the crystal sphere. Jareth's eyes were fixed intently on Fr. Michael. The expression on his face kept the goblins quiet as they moved through the throne room. And so the castle beyond the Goblin City was tense and almost silent while Michael walked on, oblivious to surveillance.

Jareth closed his eyes and frowned pensively, elegantly gloved fingers stroking his cheekbones thoughtfully. Then his hand stilled. Mismatched eyes snapped open and a wide, wicked smile spread to match the glint contained within them. "Ah, memories," he crooned enigmatically. Then he vanished, leaving the goblins to exchange furtive looks of bewilderment.

The wind billowed the loose shirt of the Goblin King, but the sand did not strike him. It wouldn't dare. The heat did not abate, but it did not seem to bother Jareth. The violent gusts seemed to take pleasure in teasing out the long strands of blonde hair, and a small smile creased his cheek at the antics of the desert wind.

He made a small gesture, and a small patch of sand rose up and heaved. Finally, it solidified into an elegant gazebo of rose-orange stone. In the centre was a dry fountain. Jareth's boots clicked inaudibly on the stone floor. With a twist of his wrist, he produced a crystal. After weighing the bright bauble in his palm for a moment, he tossed it into the air. It fell slowly, as if it were full of some lighter than air substance.

Without a sound it touched the top of the dry fountain. On contact, it turned into a gush of clear liquid. The fountain sparkled and gleamed in the slightly pink light. It was, though Jareth said it himself, a perfect temptation. With a last smile at his handiwork, the Goblin King vanished.

Michael almost literally stumbled on the small gazebo a short time later. He opened his eyes in surprise when his foot came down on solid stone instead of shifting sand. He regretted it immediately when sand lodged in his eyes, but he had seen the fountain. _Thank God!_ He thought fervently. He felt half dead from dehydration.

He forgot caution. Using both hands as a cup, he gulped the amazingly cold and clean stuff. Once his thirst had abated, he splashed the soothing liquid on his painfully red skin. As a precaution, he drank more of it and then soaked his black shirt in the fountain. Feeling well again, the priest set out across the sands again.

Michael moved through the crowd of revelers with contented aimlessness. He'd pause at various knots of colourful acquaintances, talk, and then move on like a butterfly sampling different flowers. An apt simili: Everyone was vividly costumed. Michael couldn't quite recall what the occasion was; he assumed that had somethin to do with the half-full champagne glass in his hand. It was probably the most recent in an impressive line.

He was suddenly arrested by the sight of a striking man with an elaborately careless haircut laughing halfway across the ballroom. He ad the disturbing feeling he had seen the fellow somewhere before. Suddenly he laughed aloud, drawing amused and indulgent glances from the other party-goers. How ridiculous to be so drunk as to forget one's own host! Still chuckling a little, he drained the glass and began in Jareth's direction.

_Good guy, Jareth,_ Michael mused. His mind was pleasantly afuzz with champagne. _And for the life of me, I can't remember what the celebration's about!_ But that was perfectly permitable in such company... Everyone was at least partly drunk. The music started up and Michael was swept away by a woman in a golden mask. The slightly macabre nature of the costumes did not perturb Michael in the slightest. Jareth had a queer whim.

Jareth watched him dance out of the corner of one tip-tilted and made-up eye. He had seen Michael's eye catch on him, and observed the perturbed expression that clouded the other man's features. He made a slight gesture, and the disturbed look disappeared with a laugh.

Another slight gesture, and the musicians began to play. With a small smile, Jareth watched as the revelers swept the once-priest up. He was enjoying himself in Michael's fantasy. The dream was surprisingly well formed and elaborate, and stretched farther than most. It would be easy to be caught up in it, even for an experienced dreamer such as the Goblin King. Michael was obviously enraptured by it, more than willing to let it carry him away.

And Jareth was quite willing to oblige him.


	5. Chapter 5

The last drifting notes of the song ended, and the dancers became spectators

**AN:** To those who have become impatient with me, I beg pardon, and I thank you for forbearance. Thanks to everyone who reviews, it's greatly appreciated. In fact, it is so much appreciated that I will write another chapter of Crystal Spam dedicated to everyone who has ever reviewed me.

The last drifting notes of the song ended, and the dancers became spectators. They stood apart, applauding the musicians' skill and laughing senselessly. Carefree laughter. The next strains began to cast their net, but when Michael extended his hand to his partner she shook her head with a small smile beneath the edge of her mask. "Follow me, Michael," she implored him, taking his hand enjoiningly. They threaded their way through the swirling fabrics, weaving through the dancers. The golden masked woman and he came out into a garden courtyard. The sunlight danced on the metallic mask, and gifted the flowers with a newly born look.

He turned his face back from the garden blossoms to his companion, and her lips met his in a gentle kiss. Michael willingly immersed himself in the sensation of her soft champagne flavored lips. Finally she pulled away, both breathing a little harder. "You are so beautiful inside," she breathed in a reverent tone. Her voice was as mellifluous as the music that still caressed their ears. He gave an incredulous laugh. Shouldn't he be the admirer?

Beneath the heady rush of the champagne and the lingering effects of the kiss, there was a small part of him that was disturbed. Something was wrong, it insisted, something was terribly wrong with this. He stepped away from the woman, leaving her with her arms partly outstretched in a wistful gesture. He frowned. What was wrong? Searching, he was searching... He turned his head, and glanced at the ornate sundial, registering the small amount of time left. Time was running out, and he was looking... For someone.

His shoes made soft scuffing sounds on the wet pavement that glittered in the streetlight's gleam. It was so very late, and he was becoming desperate. Bleak thoughts clawed at his mind, insidiously whispering doubts that he would ever find her. He took a deep breath of air made temporarily clean by the rain. A car drove by, windows opaque and suddenly jeweled in the streetlamp's glow. Then it was gone, and it hadn't really offered Michael any relief from the pain of an increasingly hopeless search.

But there was no one else to share the burden with. The Garda were unimpressed by his assurances that Bettina would never disappear on a whim, not without telling her mother. They had told him that the odds were she'd show up the next day. They couldn't file a report, not for another day. So he had left, angered and frustrated. And very, very, scared. He knew there was something wrong, that it had to with what he had discovered a bare week ago, the shocking revelation about a girl he had known since childhood.

He didn't know what it was he was looking for, here in the worst parts of Dublin. _A sign, _his intuition whispered. A sign from God, showing him where to look. He needed to find her, felt the urgency in his bones. It kept him walking, despite the weariness that the search had long since worked into his soul. In spite of the exam the next day that had previously been foremost in his mind. He looked at the ground, watching the scintillating wet light. It changed color, suddenly, to vivid green. He looked up, jerkily, like a man almost too weary to raise his eyes.

A nightclub, complete with a bouncer who glared ill temperedly at the glistening world. The door opened, two drunken women shrieking with laughter breaking the night followed by the heavy pulse of dance music. Michael watched as one of them drunkenly fumbled a plastic bag into her bespangled purse. His eyes flicked back to the door. He changed direction. The bouncer glowered at him. "What're you?" He asked bluntly, "Some sort of undercover police?" He surveyed the somber gray slicker with suspicion. Michael blinked.

"No," he said, "And if I were, wouldn't it be a bit too obvious?" He had no patience to spare for this antagonizing man. The bouncer shrugged and stuck out a hand for ID. Michael handed it to him and he shrugged again. Michael went in. The music was so loud; it seemed to be trying to shake him dry. He blinked at the shifting mass of writhing bodies. The entire place was like some saint's vision of Hell, except here the denizens wore grimaces of pleasure.

There was no sign of Bettina. Somehow, he hadn't expected there to be. He made his way to the back of the room, anyway, edging close to the walls. Four women and two men were doing cocaine in the corner, not yet high but working seriously on getting there. They looked up with eyes that were glazing over as he approached them.

"Do you know a girl called Bettina?" He asked, yelling to be heard. One of the girls' eyes lit up after a moment of disoriented staring.

"Oh yeah! The brunette with the little dog, right? She shrieked delightedly. "Sure, I know her. Who're you? Boyfriend, something?"

"Yeah. Do you know where she is?" He asked her urgently. She screamed with mirth.

"Sure, I know where she _probably_ is. You aren't gonna like it, but I know where she'll be." The drug-using girl burst out laughing, her friends laughing too. Michael waited until they'd calmed down. "This guy called Rick. They do business. Want the address?" Her friends chortled and she snorted. Michael waited while she scrawled it down. Then he snatched the scrap of paper and left, amid gales of laughter that the pounding music instantly obliterated.

He pushed his way to the door, and stepped out into the chill of the night. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the throbbing beat. Slight rain cooled his aching head, and he left the hood off. The umbrella bearing bouncer glanced at him suspiciously, but let him walk away unmolested. Michael looked at the untidy scribble, making sure of his destination. He strode through the streets, the air permeated with the smell of rain. He glanced at a few miserable, sodden people tucked into doorways, but didn't pause.

It took a long time, but eventually he glanced upward and saw street signs that matched the names on the paper. His heart beat against his chest, hope flaring. There, a derelict house with the lights on. He leapt up the cracked concrete steps and pounded on the door. No one came. The urgent feeling was back, driving him frantic. He stepped back, glancing about at the windows. Barred. He shifted his stance. Then he brought up one leg, twisting his body around and lashing out with his foot. The old wood cracked. He repeated his assault in a flurry of kicks.

Breathing hard, Michael stepped through the splintered door. There were shouts coming from upstairs, which explained why no one had come to investigate the knock or the battering. Michael took the flight of stairs two at a time, and burst through the open door at the top. He registered Bettina, cowering in the corner, and the man leveling a gun at her. Then he had his arm around the man's neck, and was reaching for the gun with his free hand.

The man- whom Michael supposed was Rick- struggled with him, attempting to both break his grip and aim the gun. They lumbered about the room in an ungraceful dance, with Bettina's screeches in the background. Rick slammed Michael up against the wall, trying to dislodge his assailant. Michael's breath went out of him with an _oof!_ but he hung on doggedly, gripping Rick's wrist. Then the back of the other man's head smashed into Michael's face with nose breaking force. Rick slumped, with the young man's arm still around his neck.

Bettina stood there looking shocked, a hefty radio in her hands. Michael let the unconscious man thud onto the floor and gathered the trembling girl into his arms. She broke down, sobbing incoherently. He stroked her back, making soothing sounds. As he rocked her slowly, he sent up a thankful prayer that he had found her. Suddenly, he stiffened.

"No," he whispered fiercely, "I didn't find her. I was too late. Bettina is dead!" He thrust his startled girlfriend away from himself, recoiling. "This is all a _lie!_" He cried out, in anguish and fury. And the entire world spun apart, into brilliant shards.

**AN:** The poor boy's head is being messed with, neh? The next chapter is where the gore starts, just to warn you. Some of you are going to hate me for that. : )

Please, review. I read palms, not minds. Tell me what you think, or I won't know what to fix! This isn't being edited by anyone but the readers!


	6. Chapter 6

Michael woke up wet. His hair had left a damp stain on his pillow, and he appeared to have first jumped into a pool completely clothed and then jumped directly into bed. He stared about the tiny room in confusion. The walls were whitewashed, and sunlight was pouring through the lace curtains, making patterns of shadows. He sat up, knowing that recognition should have come by now. But in all honesty, he didn't know. Then a head poked around the door, and a woman with white hair braided up and a weathered face smiled cheerfully at him.

"Ah, you've woken, then. I wasn't sure you would today at all, no indeed I wasn't! There, then, it was a fine, heroic thing to do, jumping into that river to save that poor lass, but next time try to kick off your shoes!" She pointed at the sodden dress shoes with a warm chuckle. Michael stared at her, looking thunderstruck as she spoke. Then, suddenly, he bounded out of bed and hugged her fiercely. She seemed mildly surprised.

"Gran," Michael muttered, head buried in her floral patterned shoulder. She patted his wet back, tsking sympathetically. He finally drew back a bit to take in every detail. Her blue eyes glittered with concern from amidst the careworn and laughing lines of her face. "I must've dreamt—I was so sure something'd—" He choked, and stopped. Tears threatened to spill over. So silly, she was perfectly safe. The house was fine; fine and as sturdy as it had been for more than a century now.

"Now then, Michael-me-lad"— She always called him that, it was something that made her Gran—"You just come into the kitchen, now, and get yourself some food. You're too skinny to go about jumpin' into rivers! Next time, you'll be fat enough to float!" Gran laughed merrily at her own joke, and Michael smiled; a thin, tired smile. He'd had such dreams...

Gran steered him toward the large kitchen, which always seemed half again as large as all the other rooms in the house to Michael. Her hand on his shoulder felt..._bonier_...than usual. He glanced down in concern, but the appendage was as sturdy as ever. Gran was the kind of woman who, though not easily mistaken for a man, had been easily able to do a man's job and then go home and cook magical dinners and keep the house shining. She was large boned and tough, was Gran. Her hands showed it.

Michael allowed himself to be gently pushed into a chair around the large kitchen table. He watched intently as his grandmother moved about her domain, humming "The Fields of Old Doneen" as she collected foodstuffs. He rubbed his temples. There was something he was forgetting, he was sure of it. He wracked his brains, trying to remember. Finally, he gave up. Whatever it was, surely everyone would forgive his lapse in memory. It wasn't his habit to forget things, and no one could expect him to be on the ball after an unplanned swim in the river. He wondered, a little, why he hadn't been in the hospital? Maybe they'd found nothing wrong with him, and had let his grandmother take him to her home to rest.

Gran came over, beaming at him and carrying two plates. "I baked this for you specially, while you were away with the fairies. For being a hero." She set down a plate with a cake on it, an angel cake that had frosting and strawberries in the frosting. She had baked it occasionally before, on days like birthdays or Christmas or Easter. It was the kind of cake that never had leftovers the next day. "And there's this"—she set down some weird potato dish that he'd never bothered to ask the name of, but knew involved butter and cheese in bountiful quantities. next to be set down was a trout, which had been cooked until brown on the outside and soft enough to mimic butter on the inside. Immediately after was a bowl of cream with strawberries and billberries and all kinds of berries sunk into it. After that a plate with field mushrooms that had been slowly cooked and flavored with salt. On and on, all kinds of food, until the solid kitchen table groaned with the weight of it all.

And Michael watched, a sick feeling growing in him that had nothing to do with his stomach. His Gran never skimped anyone, but she didn't believe in wasting food by cooking more than could possibly be eaten. Aside from that, more important, she kept urging him to "eat, eat!" Although she didn't insist that everyone be seated before a meal was begun, she _did_ insist that they pray together. "Gran," Michael ventured, "Do you want me to say the blessing?" He watched her face carefully.

"Oh, now! If you feel like it, then I suppose you can!" She laughed. Catching the hand that patted his shoulder, Michael bowed his head, closing his eyes. "May the Lord our Father bless this food, and this house, and all who are here, and remove from our eyes the deceptions which seek to tempt us from our true path. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen." As he spoke, he tightened his grip on the hand which felt thinner and bonier in his grasp by the word. Finally, as he crossed himself, he opened his eyes and stared into the hollow sockets of a skeleton.

He let go of the bony digits and rose slowly from the mostly broken chair. The table now groaned under the weight of rotten food writhing with maggots, and a desolate wind moaned by, unimpeded by the remnants of walls almost burnt to the ground. A sudden laugh made the priest spin around to see the creature Jareth leaning against one of the charred walls. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he heard the rattle of bones collapsing.

"Why that house? Why her?" He asked, voice raised to carry over the mourning wind. He could feel the bitter twist to his mouth, it suddenly seemed like too much, too far. The Goblin King stood and stalked past the priest, stopping just behind him.

"Why?" he repeated. "Can't you tell me?" Michael turned, met the angry gaze. _Anger._ Why should this being, who seemed to command the power to satisfy every whim with the snap of a finger, be so bitter? His own anger set aside, the priest searched those strange eyes.

"I miss her." Fr. Michael said softly, surprising himself. The slanting eyebrows shot up, the challenge faded. "I miss them both, I'd give almost anything to have them with me again. I pray for them every day. Here, in this place"— He stopped, looking around at the corpse strewn plain. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. The child... I need to go." But Jareth had already gone. With a weary sigh Father Michael began picking his way through the bones and the rot.


End file.
